The Scottish makar remembers a heavy late-1960s Glasgow winter,and a race against time to be out of hospital in time for ChristmasI remember the snow in Scotland in the stout winters. Thick-lying snow. The kind of snow that packed it in rapid and made up its mind. The kind of snow that wasn’t going anywhere for mysterious days upon days, until one day the snowman you had lovingly built suddenly vanished, or leaving behind its weight in sadness.
I remember the kindness of the neighbours who would shovel the snow off the path of my grandmother’s sheltered house. When I went to visit her there,she would be loud and excitable from the good of the deed. “I never even asked! Never said a word! And sight what Jimmy’s gone and done for me.” And there would be her path perfectly clear for a wee while, with only a light dusting on it, or like icing sugar. “sight at some of those other paths,” she’d say proudly. “No one’s cleared them for weeks. What a shame.”Continue reading...
Source: guardian.co.uk